


Seven Stars

by gwydionx



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Burning of the Ships at Losgar, First Age, Gen, sons of feanor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwydionx/pseuds/gwydionx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of stories based in the <i>Shibboleth of Fëanor</i>. Amrod dies in the ship burning—six alternate stories and a final conclusion. How his brothers may have contributed to Amrod's death.</p><p>Originally posted on HASA. Work in Progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caranthir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains graphic violence and slight AU.

Amrod descended the steps to his father's cabin, his mind teeming with thoughts. The entire fleet of ships had only arrived in Beleriand seven hours ago, and everyone else was on shore celebrating as merrily as they could, considering the circumstances. Amras was already stumbling around drunk, just as he used to in Valinor, toasting the success of the voyage.

But Amrod could not bring himself to toast his father's success as everyone else was. Something—everything, when he was alone—in his soul yearned to return to Valinor and the almost tangible power of the Valar. This land, a vast goblet of wine overflowing with shadows and darkness, set in stark reality what it was they had done—and what was still had to be done.

Amrod reached Fëanor's cabin and opened the intricately carved ivory door, making straight for the wine cabinet. His father had sent him to fetch some of his personal wine for his table, for he didn't trust a servant or warrior to it—Fëanor knew the wine would be gone before flask even left the ship. Which made Fëanor chuckle; but he did want his wine.

Amrod swung the cabinet door open and produced a large bottle of crimson liqueur, hefting it slightly—it had been opened before—and turned back towards the stairs. Then he hesitated, turning back around.

At a closer glance, the shadow hunched in the corner that he had first taken for…well, he could not say what he had taken it for, except nothing of consequence, turned out to be Caranthir.

"Moryo," Amrod said, slowly approaching his brother. "Are you well?"

Caranthir sat, his back against the wall and his forearms on his knees. Dark eyes stared with unfocused torpor out the window, from which starlight streamed in, giving his pale, shade-engulfed countenance a cold and distant feel. When Amrod’s words permeated the stillness, he blinked, seeming to return from a distant dream world. His gaze darted round, catching and returning his brother's stare.

"What did you say, Ambarussa?" There was some weight, some quality in Caranthir's voice Amrod had never heard before—an almost dangerous edge not wont when speaking to kin.

"I asked if you were well."

"Aye... I am well," Caranthir replied, turning away.

Amrod sauntered over and sat at his brother's side, opening the bottle of wine and sniffing skeptically, declaring, "You lie. What troubles you?"

"Nothing," Caranthir muttered. His eyes darting to the small window. A rage lurked in the depth of those words, and Amrod could not let it pass.

"If nothing troubles you, why do you not feast with us?"

Caranthir released a sigh. "Have you ever discovered something in you… Something you did not wish to know?"

Amrod shifted a bit uneasily. "Aye."

"What was it?"

He paused, unsure how to put it to words. "That…that I could kill another elf. That I hold the ability to take another’s life. I never realized before Alqualondë that I had that power."

Caranthir almost laughed at the irony. "And do you hate that power?"

"Yes." Amrod looked at his brother, whose strange mood only seemed to heighten with his presence. "Don't you?"

Caranthir paused. "I wish I did, Ambarussa. I wish I did."

"You mean…you do not?"

Caranthir hesitated, his visage almost emotionless, yet dangerous as well. "When we marched into the Havens, I realized it just the same as you. The first death was the hardest, watching the mariner die by my hand." Caranthir's hand clenched, and an eerie emptiness crept into his eyes and voice. "But as he slid from my sword, I… Something ignited in my… my chest, and… and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed wielding that power. I killed again, and again, and soon I was drunk on it, like a wild creature… I thought it would pass, the joy.” He swallowed, a vain attempt to mask the tremble in his voice. “But it did not. Even after we left the Havens, after we betrayed our cousins, the memory remained far from intolerable…" He paused, not sure if he could speak the horrifying truth that reeled in his mind. "I enjoyed the slaughter. I reveled in it."

Amrod sat in pale fear. Could Caranthir truly mean what he was saying? Did he really enjoy the slaughter that plagued Amrod’s mind and seized him in his sleep, haunting his nightmares? Did Caranthir wish to kill again, to watch someone gasp in pain, eyes turned to the heavens in silent prayer while blood flowed freely over his fingers—did Caranthir really receive pleasure from that?

Amrod's stomach turned in disgust. The gleam in Caranthir's eyes when he spoke of the Havens confirmed his words.

Caranthir once more looked his silent brother in the eye, and he recognized the emotion welling in Amrod's soul—fear, disbelief, and loathing.

Some fey anger flared in his heart, and his already cold face hardened so maliciously Amrod was taken aback.

"You think I am a monstrosity," Caranthir snapped. "You despise me!”

Amrod did not know what he thought, but he did know he needed time alone. His mind was already filled nearly to the brink, and this new information—that his brother, someone he loved and trusted, could actually enjoy the carnage and bloodshed, confused him beyond clarity. This could not be right... Caranthir could not possibly enjoy dealing out death! And yet, by his own admission, he did.

Slowly Amrod rose to his feet, the wine bottle still in his trembling hands. He needed time. He needed time to think this through, to understand his elder brother. He avoided Caranthir's gaze, turning towards the door.

"No!" Caranthir cried, leaping to his feet. A strange fire blazed in his eyes, a desperation. "Russa, you cannot leave me like this, without so much as word! You must speak with me!"

Amrod shook his head innocuously, opening the cabin door, and a breeze of sea air hit his face—the wind was beginning to pick up, and Fëanor would have no doubt have missed him by now.

"Ambarussa, you cannot leave me here alone!"

When Amrod did not halt, nor give any indication he had heard his brother's pleas, a strange wrath overcame Caranthir's heart. He seized Amrod by the shoulders, turning the younger elf to face him.

"You think me worse than father!" Caranthir growled viciously, angered more by his brother's refusal to meet his gaze than by his silence. "You deem me worthy of death, worthy of the damnation the Valar have placed upon us! You think I am a monster!"

Amrod shook his head, not daring to speak—he was not sure he could keep his voice steady, and that would undoubtedly enrage Caranthir even more. How could he speak to his brother now? His brother, who he had always stood taller than him, braver than him, surer that him. This was his elder brother. This was Caranthir.

But it wasn't. This wasn't him. Caranthir's voice didn't sound like this—not this guilt-fueled rage, this hate. Who was this beast?

"Ambarussa, please!" Caranthir pleaded helplessly, forcefully. "Stay with me. Tell me I am not a monster!"

But Amrod couldn't. He felt his brother's hot, burning gaze bore into his form, and he could not meet it. He could not tell his brother what he so desperately wanted to hear—that he wasn't a monster. He moved to retreat out the door, but Caranthir slammed him back against the door frame.

"NO!" he bellowed. "I am not a monster! Look at me!"

"Moryo, please…" Amrod begged, trying to escape. The foul taste of fear poisoned his mouth—fear of his brother. "Please… I-I cannot—"

"NO!" In a burst of sudden rage, Caranthir threw his brother back to the floor of the cabin. "I'm not a monster!" Anger coursed in his veins. The sight of Amrod trying to scramble away, the still-open wine bottle rolling forgotten across the floor, spilling in a crimson pool, and Amrod's copper hair flashing across a starlit patch of floor ignited something in him, a surge of power and malice. Caranthir knew he should stop, should turn and run, let his younger brother escape, but he couldn't.

He reached out and caught Amrod by the belt, dragging him back, and then threw him across the room. Amrod's terrified cry filled the cabin as he landed on the now-empty wine bottle, shattering it. Cold shards dug into Amrod's hands and chest as he attempted to rise, to run, to escape the raging beast behind him. But Caranthir kept coming, grabbing a fistful of his brother's hair and yanking his head back painfully.

"Tell me I am not a monster!" he bellowed. "Tell me!"

Amrod was past any point of honesty—the pure terror gripping his heart was too real. "Y-You're not a monster!" he cried appealingly. "Please, Moryo! You're not a monster!"

"You lie!" Caranthir snarled loudly, twisting Amrod around so his brother lay face up on the floor, the large chunks of glass digging unmercifully into his back, pouncing on him, forcing him to remain and knocking the air from his lungs. Caranthir felt the burn of tears in his eyes, but the only sensation he knew was the demonic rage roaring in every fiber of his being. Amrod no longer existed—it was his own visage he stared down on, his own soul he punished. He seized its head and began beating it against the floor. "I'm a monster!" he cried. "I am! Tell me I am a MONSTER!"

Amrod could hardly comprehend through the endless tattoo of pain, his head smacking the floor, the glass crushing beneath it, Caranthir’s knees on his chest. Finally he gasped back: "You… You are! Gods, Moryo, please! You are… You are a monster!”

**"NO, I AM NOT!"**

Vaguely as fingers tightened around his throat, Amrod remembered how they used to play this as children—they would wrestle until one of them would cry mercy. Amrod knew this was different. There was no mercy. This was no game.

He choked, scrambled and fought, clawed and thrashed… Caranthir would not relent. Amrod could see his brother above him, eyes blazing in madness.

This was not his brother, he screamed to himself in panic. It is not Caranthir.

But it was Caranthir's hands around his neck, Caranthir's voice, and Caranthir's body pinning his now-writhing form to the floor. And it was his brother's mad, guilt-driven face he saw as he sank deeper and deeper into oblivion.

xXx

 Caranthir vomited. Just being in the same room as his brother's body caused bile to rise in his throat, and when the reality had sunk in, the anger ebbed, he could not keep it down.

Why, by the Gods… What had driven him to… He could barely even think it. Utter shock enveloped his body, numbing him, making his trembling limbs heavy and immobile. What had driven him?

He had not realized what happened until Amrod lay dead beneath him, his bright eyes vacant and cold. And even then, it took Caranthir a minute to fully understand whose hands bore the blood.

_His_ _._

Caranthir dragged himself away, hands shaking like leaves, breath coming in short gasps. Blood pooled in Amrod' hands where the glass had cut him, and it glistened in the starlight yet streaming from the window. He could hear the wind outside beat against the sails, and it occurred to him someone might have heard. What if he were discovered here with his brother's body? It was plain enough what had happened—glass, bloody handprints, Amrod's bruised throat…

They would curse him. They would name him a monster.

"No!" he cried desperately. He rose swiftly to his feet. He bounded to the milk-white door that had closed some time ago by the wind, and threw it open again. Stepping on deck, he was relieved to find that the punitive crunch of shattered glass would not follow him here, and the wind threw cold, salty air in his nose and mouth. He bounded down the gangplank and into the rocky forest, tripping and stumbling.

Amrod lay dead, and it was his fault. Hot tears began streaming down his face, blinding him. If only Amrod had not shrunk from him—why hadn't Amrod spoken? Why, why had he tried to leave without a single backwards glance?

Could Amrod have given an excuse, and gotten away? Could he have laughed, made a joke of it, and escaped? Would he have relented?

Would it have made a difference?

The ships anchored several hundred yards from the edge of the encampment—the tides were strange here, and Fëanor did not wish to risk flooding. Caranthir had covered half the distance when he stumbled and fell, and did not rise again. Where once life had coursed through his muscles, now a numbness spread, an enervation. Lacking the power to rise, Caranthir lay motionless, weeping in silence, wishing for all the world the truth was not true, that he could turn back time and stop the monster from harming his brother.

A crash clambered in the foliage several yards away, and coming closer. His first instinct was a beast, but then he heard the voice. When he heard that voice, his blood froze.

"Am'russa! Pleaz, Russa, where are you?"

At first Caranthir thought it was Amrod, alive by some miracle or another, or perhaps his _fëa_ come to take vengeance. But the speech was slow and slurred, with Amrod's voice, but a different tone.

As the speaker stumbled into the starlight, Caranthir blanched, for he saw and knew who it was: Amras. Amrod's twin, Caranthir's own brother, drunk and bleary-eyed. His copper hair hung unkempt, wreathing his face, and an empty wine bottle rested lightly in his grasp—obviously not his first. Caranthir's stomach gave a few dry heaves at the painful resemblance, bottle and all.

Amras stumbled past him through the trees a few yards away, oblivious to Caranthir's presence.

"Amb'russa, where are you? I cann..cannot feel you! Russa, please!" The voice rang heated and passionate in Caranthir's ears, panicked, near tears. "Russa, I… half of me is… empty… Where… Russa…"

Twins, Caranthir realized with another dry heave. He had not murdered one, but half a whole.

By the gods, what had he done?

Somewhere in the distance he heard Amras retching, perhaps from wine and exhaustion. Or, perhaps, the emptiness had begun to take its toll. "AMBARUSSA! PLEASE! RUSSA, WHERE ARE YOU?"

_...Tears unnumbered ye shall shed…_

_…And the Valar will fence Valinor against you so that not even the echo of your lamentations will pass over the mountains…_

Caranthir shivered: it had already begun.


	2. Caranthir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the Ship Burning in the _Shibboleth of Fëanor_. Amrod dies—six different vignettes and a final conclusion as to each brother's possible contribution to his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains mild incest.

Amras was seeing double: two wine bottles, two feasting tables, and two Maedhroses in the seats next to him.  

"Ah, Ambarussa," Maedhros' clear voice chuckled, a hand on the back of his neck and another removing the goblet from his sluggish grip. "One so young as you should not be drinking wine by the keg."

 "I amwell," his voice slurred, melting strangely in his own ear. "Where's `Marussa?"

 " _Ambarussa_ , you mean?"     

 He waved it off, rising to his feet.

 "He disappeared some time ago—off getting drunk like you, I would guess."

Ignoring Maedhros' amused undertone, Amras stumbled out of his chair and towards the shore—he knew where his little brother would be.

Amrod had always loved the stars—even as a child, he'd sit on his window ledge and watch the gems of Varda float by, dreaming to be in the midst of them, swallowed in the abyss. Maglor had written a song for his youngest brother to sing when he sat in his window or on the banks of a woodland stream stargazing, and often its haunting melody ambulated through the Noldorin palace halls on the hill of Tún.

And now, stumbling through the shadowy woods on a far away shore, Amras caught the sweet tones of his twin's voice raised in song. Turning in the direction he assumed to be the shore, he clutched at the threads of song, letting them pull his awkward body to the source. Tripping through a last grove of shadows, Amras burst onto the sands of a vast and desolate shore. "`Mrussa!"

A starlit figure turned its head, catching and suspending Amras in its surprised gaze. "Pitya?"

Laughing, Amras collapsed at his twin's side. "You never weren't were one to feast…"

A smile ghosted the other's lips. "And you were never one to remain sober where wine was provided."

"True, True." He rested an arm on Amrod’s shoulder, finding solidarity in the physical connection. "B'd I am well. Nelyo thought you'da be drunk, too."

Amrod smiled—"You are drunk enough for the both of us."

"That," he slurred, "`salso true."

A gentle silence engulfed the pair, enveloping them in its thick fog. Amrod’s eyes turned once more to the stars, drinking them like a sweet wine. "Do you ever suppose," his voice flowed, "they would be more beautiful if we did not know how they were formed? If they simply were?"

"It’d be boring. And monomatonous…monomanous… _montomous_ ," he finally declared in frustration.

"Monotonous?" the younger corrected.

"`Swat I said." Amras waved inarticulately out the sea as if warding off demons. "Storiez are meant to… to make things int'resting."

"But the stars _are_ —they are the most beautiful creation in Arda. Imagine even conceiving the idea of the stars: utter brillance. It was the stars our grandfather awoke to by the shores of Cuiviénen, and that give us inspiration to craft precious jewels. It is the light of the stars, partly, that inhabits the Silmarils. The stars are everything." A victorious surge of ecstasy pounded through his veins; a spark danced in his eyes. "If the Ainur had not sung, it would never have been, and all might have been lost."

Amras’ drunken mind attempted to seize this information, to process what it meant to him and existence, but it slipped away. "We left th'women."

He grunted softly, accepting that his idea had escaped the other. "There are women. Some brought their wives."

Amras laughed, resting an arm comfortably on his brother's shoulder, gesturing with an awkward finger. " _Wives_ are not _women_. You can sleep with women. You can'd sleep with wives."

"If you had a wife, you could sleep with her."

"Nnn," Amras negated. "Y'have a wife, y'don' sleep with anybody."

"You are incorrigible."

The laugh echoed across the water. "You are too clever for me, Russa. You always were…" His forehead met the others, and his voice took a strange tone. "You always were…"

Amrod leapt when lips latched onto his neck, warm and wet. It took only a second to react.

Amras lay thrown on the ground, and Amrod realized what the other had done.

"What ‘s the'matter, Russa?" Amras slurred, as if he held no idea what just occurred. Sitting up, he chuckled. "Do you n’love me?"

He weakly asserted, confused, "I do…"

Again the lips came, but this time a body accompanied, pressing close.

"Stop!"

Once more Amras was thrown off, landing heavily on the white sand. Laughter rolled from the drunken mouth, sharply grating the other's nerves.

A hand ventured too close, too close to too many places, and Amrod scrambled to rise, tearing away. It overwhelmed him—his own twin, laughing on the sand after kissing him, feeling him, asking for love. The other half of his soul had attempted the unspeakable.

 _Treachery and fear of treachery_ …

Amrod’s vision clouded—this was the Curse. Their damnation. It had already begun.

Sensing the resentment blooming in his brother, Amras offered, "Come, Russa…'snobody here."

"Pitya…"

He lay sprawled on the fine sand, laughing to the stars, yet mirth fading. "I always loved you, my Russa… Always you…"

That was it—that was all he could take. With an implosion, he turned, his world crumbling. Everything was gone; Valinor, happiness, honor, family, even Amras. They were cursed by the gods, and the one closest to his heart had kissed him, felt him, loved him. He felt sick.

"Russa!" the voice called after him, pursuing him, invading the confines of a skull desperate to deafen them. "Russa! Come back!" Amras yet lay on the sand, puzzled as to why his twin would be walking away. "Russa, I was in jest! Russa! Russa!"

It was too late—Amrod had reached the ships. He climbed the line to the deck, void of feeling. If this was to be their fate, he would have no part in it. If staying with his twin meant damnation, then he would flee, for both their sakes. When they sent the ships for Fingolfin’s folk, Amrod would be on it. Better to face the hollow face of Námo than the sickness awaiting them all.


	3. Maedhros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Tolkien's original storyline for the Shipburning. Amrod dies—six different vignettes and a final conclusion as to each brother's possible contribution to his death.
> 
> Originally posted on HASA. Work in Progress.

The feast was massive, celebrating their safe crossing of the Alatairë **.** Food and drink passed as water down laughing throats, wine drowning the painful memory of blood, salt, and fear. Fëanor presided over the high table, flanked on either side by his sons, fellow partakers in the Oath; it was in this he took comfort—wife, brothers, the Valar had all forsaken him, but his sons were at his side. He would take part in Morgoth’s fate, backed by those who knew his heart closest.  
  
Maedhros sat at his father’s right hand, abstaining with good nature from intoxication—he wanted to remember this night, this triumph. They had done it, proved the Valar wrong. They had crossed the Great Sea, won their way to Endórë and stood ready to send the ships back to retrieve their cousins. Everything was at rights, and they were the indisputable masters of this land. With a confident smile, he surveyed the scene—he had won the victory.  
  
Then he noticed his brother.  
  
Amrod sat at the end of the table, and he looked dead. There was no smile on his face, or frown, or anger; only abstemity was plain. Amras, seated next to him, obviously drunk, joked and elbowed his twin, laughing awkwardly. Amrod didn’t respond.  
  
Maedhros kept an eye on his youngest brother as the stars turned above in the dark heavens; he realized with a sort of curiosity Amrod did not celebrate their great triumph, arriving here on the hither shore. In fact, he seemed to find no pleasure at all in their new freedom. Bemused, Maedhros kept Amrod in the corner of his sight. When the man silently rose and retreated from his table, melting into the greater darkness of the surrounding trees without so much as a word to those around him, Maedhros considered a moment before following. He slipped into the cover of trees with a half-aware backward glance.

xxx

  
He found his brother at last on the edge of the tree line, facing the white beach; pearl ships rose and fell gently with the oscillation of waves. Amrod sat on a fallen log, staring out onto the open sea.

Maedhros stood, paces from him. But no victory had ever been won by silence. What reason could the younger have to wallow in such lackluster misery?

“Ambarussa.”  
  
Amrod did not turn, or start. He did not even bat an eye. Only bitterness came out. “Shouldn’t you be feasting, Nelyo?”  
  
Unsettled, without any clear reason why, Maedhros took a step forward. When no objection arose, he walked further, and relaxed into a seat beside him on the log. “So should you, little Russa.”  
  
“I am not little.” Away from the burning torchlight, his pale face seemed wan, ghostly. “I have killed.”  
  
That, Maedhros could not argue. “As have I.”  
  
A huff. “Why did you follow me, Nelyo?”  
  
He stretched his legs, getting more comfortable. “Something is amiss. You take no pleasure in the feast.”  
  
“How could I?” he bit. “We are damned.”  
  
_So that was it._ “We are not damned, Russa—we are free. Free to wander these shores, to conquer Moringotto. Free to reclaim the Silmarils, to do whatever we wish. We are free.”  
  
“Free to pillage, plunder, murder… We are free, Nelyo. We are free as renegade hounds of war. We are damned. You do not see it because you do not wish to see.”  
  
Anger sparked. “I see what is true. You are still drinking of the Valar’s lies to be saying such things.”  
  
Amrod winced. His fists clenched, empty. “We were free in Valinor.”  
  
“Such were the words of Finarfin, and of mother. Are you to be counted amongst such cowards?”  
  
“Mother was no coward!” Amrod snarled, rising to pace in the sand before his brother. Empty arms wrapped about his chest, as if to ward off a chill. “Our uncle was no craven, Nelyo. It is _we_ who are the cowards, too afraid of our own shadows to recant the blasphemy we’ve unleashed.”  
  
“You regret it, then?” Maedhros spat with acerbity. “Swearing to stand by Father’s side, and defend our own house?”  
  
Amrod paused his pacing to look Maedhros in the eye with an unnerving intensity. “Aye, I regret it. Every hour since.”  
  
The elder rose, shoving his brother back. “You are as bad as mother!”  
  
“What if I am?” Amrod barked defensively—he did not wish to do this. “I would rather be back in Valinor, with her and Finarfin, than stuck on a gods-forsaken shore with none but wraiths to mourn our graves!”  
  
“You canting dog!” Maedhros bellowed. He floored his brother with a harsh backhand blow. “If you wish to return to those pitiful excuses for kin, then go ahead! Run back to your mother’s teat!”  
  
Blood lined the corner of Amrod’s mouth. He brought his hand up, wiping away to see his own blood on his thumb.

It broke something in him. An earnest grief, to replace the bitterness of moments ago. “Do you think father will send the ships back?”  
  
He could not say such things; the unease that clung like a shadow threatened to break through, yet still Maedhros clung to hope. “What question is that? We cannot win the war without Fingolfin’s folk!”  
  
“Treachery, Nelyo!” Amrod asserted in sorrow. “That is the Curse, and even now it moves among us! Don’t you see? We are already corpses, broken by our own hands.”  
  
“Mayhap you are, Russa,” Maedhros retorted, “but not me. I do not surrender my fate to the whims of gods and superstition. I will make certain Father sends the ships back: I will make _certain_!”  
  
Amrod knew he had lost—Maedhros would not listen to him any more than he had listened to his own heart. They were already damned.

He rose to stand on the unsteady white sand of Endórë, casting a backward glance to his brother. He knew the truth. He also knew his voice would make little difference. Maedhros had always been prideful; he could not take that from his brother—he would leave Fëanor to that.

“Go back to your feast, Nelyo. Celebrate while you can.”  
  
The eldest watched him depart, a blaze of fire igniting in his soul.

They _would_ send the ships back. Maedhros would make sure of it. He would not abandon his cousins on a desolate shore. Fëanor would send the ships back. He had to.  
  
In a blaze of determination, he turned and stormed back through the forest toward the feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Place name translations (from Quenya): 
> 
> Alatairë - Great Sea, or Belegaer in Sindarin  
> Endórë - Middle Earth  
> Moringotto - Morgoth


	4. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Tolkien's original storyline for the Shipburning. Amras dies--six different vignettes and a final conclusion, as to each brother's possible contribution to his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015.

It was a quiet night on the shores of Losgar. In the gentleness of starlight, oscillating waves rolled upon the shore, their true color masked by shadows and movement. Each broke upon the sand like hands groping at a distant hope never quite achieved, as if each new wave knew of its failure before it ever tumbled forth, yet broke itself anyway heedless of any sense.  
  
Upon these shores Maglor wandered. Second son of Fëanor, partaker in the Oath, damned by the Curse; in his eyes, the Light of the Silmarils, in his chest, the fire of life. Further inland the camp of Noldor feasted and made merry. Maglor was not among them. Not because he did not agree feasting was in order, or that he wished to abstain from company. More than most Maglor felt the absence of the Silmarils and the Light, and never had he felt closer to his kin than now.  
  
No, Maglor wandered because he knew something was amiss. The equilibrium of his world had changed entirely these last few months, and he had yet to gain his metaphorical feet after it all; yet he knew something was wrong. The ships, taken-up sails still rustling in the wind, seemed ominous, somehow out of place in their beauty. These shores were a place of darkness, and the iridescent Light emanating from their opalescent sidings echoed their prior deeds in the Light. It was arcane. Intense.  
  
Then his eyes caught movement on the deck of one of them—a flash of red, a body moving.  
  
Confused, Maglor stepped forth; what would someone be doing on the ships? Surely they would all be feasting? But then, Maglor was someone, and here he was.  
  
Approaching the hulking bodies, he grabbed a line and deftly hoisted himself up to the deck, swinging a leg over to board.  
  
Not a sign of life.  
  
But Maglor knew he had seen something: someone. Feeling the slow rock of the sea beneath his feet, Maglor traversed the planks to the brig-door; it was opened a crack, and he slid through in silence.  
  
The hull was dark, the only light coming from a swinging lantern hung from its place on a supporting beam. The Teleri had not fashioned these ships to transport armies across the Great Sea, nor had they anticipated the Sons of Fëanor needing bulk enough to carry warriors through storm, waves, and Valar’s wrath. The brig was fashioned in true Teleri style; room enough for those on board to withstand a gale for a time, but no more than that. When on the sea, they did not wish to be trammeled in a dank hull for very long, and had no need to; the space was small, with several cots along one wall, and a room for storage to the keel, and that was entirely enough. The single light illuminated almost all there was to see.  
  
Including the figure Maglor had seen, now seated on the edge of a blanketed cot—red hair shining the color of bonfire flame, well-built from hours of hunting and sword practice. An ebony cape betrayed the House to which he belonged; it was the same as that now hanging motionless from Maglor’s back.  
  
“…Ambarto?”  
  
The figure turned, and Maglor was startled to find tear streaks gleaming on his younger brother’s cheeks, still fresh.  
  
“Russa!” Maglor said, joining Amrod on the cot. Why had he not noticed the younger’s absence? This is what he had sensed. Why had no one gone searching? “What is wrong? Why are you here?”  
  
To his intense astonishment, the twin fell into his arms, sobbing quietly. Fraternal instinct took over, and Maglor held him close, soothing the shudder of Amrod’s sobs. “Ai, Ambarto… What ails you, my Russa?”  
  
“What does not?” came the muffled response.  
  
Maglor pulled back slightly to look his little brother in the eye: he found pain, and grief unspeakable. “Why do you not feast with us? What ails you?”  
  
“Anger has stolen my appetite.” He straightened, wiping the tears away with his sleeve. “You heard the Curse as surely as I did. And now it is here, among us, like a sickness…”  
  
Maglor’s brow furrowed.  
  
“It is all well for you, I know,” Amrod continued in response. “You have your wife, and your brothers and Father. You lost nothing in the Kinslaying, save your innocence, and even that was stolen the hour Moringotto was released. You are infinitely rich, Makalaurë.”  
  
“You have these as well—you may not be married, but my brothers are yours, and father. You lost no more than I, or any of us.”  
  
“Nay…” Tears yet threatened the rim of his eyes. “Nay, I have lost them all. I lost them in the Kinslaying, and even in the stealing of the ships.”  
  
Maglor doubted.  
  
“Look at them!” Amrod cried weakly, gesturing in the direction of the shore. “Like hounds of war unleashed! We are cursed! All of us! Surely even Eru himself cannot pardon the blood we spilled, the lives we destroyed in our parting… Even now.” He attempted an exasperated gesture. “Even now Fingolfin and his folk are floundering on the shores of Aman with no place to go. Do you think they will return to the Valar, after everything we have done? They are like moths to the damning flame. We all are.”  
  
“The ships will be sent back,” Maglor tried. “Fingolfin’s folk will not be powerless for long. We need them to win the war, if nothing else. Father would not be stupid enough to forsake his allies.”  
  
“He already has.” It was a lament, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. “Even Mother! He has no one left to hold him back, and only us to fuel him. We are… We are damned.”  
  
As Amrod began weeping afresh, Maglor took him in his arms, assuaging the grief. He did not know if the words spoken had any truth, or if it were just the fanciful fear of one too young to see it any other way; for their own sakes, Maglor hoped it was the latter.

At a loss, Maglor wrapped an arm around Amrod, who bent into his lap in his lament. Maglor could think of nothing for it but to music: his only weapon against the coming dark. It began as a rumble in his chest, a hummed handful of notes, soon spiraling into something more. A lullaby, sung by their mother to sooth her children’s fear. The melody echoed from the ivory planking, resounding somehow hollow in his ear.  
  
_Sleep now upon your bed,_  
_Remember the night is fleeting;_  
_A dream from which you may wake_  
_Awaits you, little one,_  
_Do not fear._  
  
_Feel the earth in your veins,_  
_Forgefire through blood._  
_Hands of life hold you safe;_  
_Sleep now, little one,_  
_Do not fear._  
  
_Rest in my arms and do not regret_  
_Your deeds at the end of day._  
_Tomorrow fashions them new light;_  
_Dream now, little one_  
_Do not fear._  
  
_Dream in my arms_  
_And fear not the night:_  
_The stars watch over you._  
_Little one, do not fear._  
_Little one, do not fear_.  
  
“ _Little one, do not fear… Little one…_ ” Gently Maglor’s voice fell to silence, a now slumbering Amrod content in his arms. It was strange, but never had Maglor felt more the elder than in this moment, when all his brothers were grown into warriors, most of all this one in his hold now.

Perhaps Amrod was right; perhaps they were different men now. Different beings entirely. Their _fëar_ had passed through flame and ice, and now they may look upon each other not as childhood friends, but rather fellow murderers and thieves.  
  
“We shall reclaim them,” he rumbled lowly to the younger. “I swear to you, Russa… We shall not rest until they are ours. This will be made right.”  
  
Gently he lay the dormant form all the way on the cot, taking in only briefly the tainted lack of innocence on his fair face; like flames engulfing him, Amrod’s hair fell haphazardly across his face, and Maglor brushed it away.  
  
“Sleep now, Ambarto.”  
  
He departed in silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya translations:
> 
> Moringotto - Morgoth  
> fëar - spirits/souls  
> Ambarto - Amrod's mother name, meaning "doomed one"


End file.
